


A Private Adventure

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [26]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artists, Berlin (City), First Kiss, First Time, Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On holiday with friends in Berlin, Crawford meets an art student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/profile)[indelicateink](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/) suggested a mini-WK challenge, and prompted me to write an AU to the AU series of mine where Crawford is an artist in 1920s London: _artist Schuldig has his eye on young American Crawford for his model in 1920s Germany_

Being in Berlin was enthralling – the beautiful, wide streets and massive, stately buildings overawed Brad, although he didn't want to admit it. The Berliners themselves were like the inhabitants of any great city in America, he thought, only more intimidating with their clothes cut slightly differently and their conversations, half-heard in passing, not in English. His friends looked about them in disgust.

"My God, this is just like home," Frank said. "I'm already bored."

"You'd never think that just a few years ago these people needed a wheelbarrow full of banknotes just to buy a loaf of bread," Richard said, scornfully. "Look at them! All as well-fed and well-dressed as the people we tried to get away from in New York! Surely there must be something _real_ around here?"

"I like it," Brad said, looking at the smart way a young soldier helped a passing lady into a taxi-cab with her purchases. As he felt his friends' eyes in him he made sure his gaze was firmly on the woman rather than the soldier.

"Pfft," Richard said. "You're impressed too easily. Not all of us are from the country, you know."

"Let's at least get off the main roads. Real Berliners wouldn't eat and drink in these places," Frank said, condemning with a casual wave of his hand the fancy cafes and restaurants with their gleaming glasses and silverware that Brad had been looking forward to.

A couple of hours later they stood in far dingier streets, swaying and clutching at the walls for support. Brad was glad to be out of the restaurant where they'd eaten lunch, not because he was a hick and a snob as his friends had said, mocking him for blushing when less-wealthy Berliners looked over at them, but because he had been downright embarrassed by his friends' behavior. All through the meal they had loudly proclaimed their pleasure in the _realness_ of the restaurant and the other diners and the food itself compared to the finer streets and venues of the city, not caring how their voices carried or that surely there were others there who understood English. Brad shuddered to think how the other people in the restaurant must have believed they were being mocked for not being able to afford fine restaurants by foreign visitors who so clearly could. He had drunk his beer too fast to cover his embarrassment and too much of it besides.

"Isn't it this way back to the hotel?" he said, gesturing vaguely.

"No, 's'that way," Frank said. "M'sure."

Richard attempted to straighten his hat, then gave up and just started walking, taking what seemed to Brad to be random turns until they emerged into a far more respectable looking area that was, however, entirely new to them all. They were, he thought in a vague, beery gloom, completely lost. They wandered around, looking at buildings and churches that were not as imposing as those near their hotel, and arguing about how best to find their way back. Richard had the best command of German, but there was no denying that he was also the drunkest. The argument stopped when Frank pointed to a building on the corner.

"Rosenkreuz Kunsthochschule – what's that? It sounds delightfully filthy."

They al sniggered until Richard managed to say with dignity, "It's an art school, you philistine."

"Maybe there will be kunst on display, then," Frank said. "What's an art school without naked girls to paint, right?"

"You have a terrible way with words," Brad laughed, adding quickly, "though you're right, the more – and the more naked - the merrier."

They wandered over and Richard looked closely at a large piece of card fixed to the wall of the building. He straightened and grinned at them.

"Well, look here, boys, see what this says?"

The others squinted at it. Brad tried to sound out the German slowly, coming up with nothing he could understand.

" _Life models wanted_ \- and today's the day! Say, Frank, don't you think Brad here would look just adorable immortalized on canvas?"

"What?" Brad said. "Oh, no. No way."

"You said it yourself, the nakeder the better!" Frank crowed. "It'll do you good, help you get over your shyness."

"I'm not shy –"

"Sure you are, you've been acting awful strange at things like swim practice, peeping round to see if people are looking at you, then staring at the ground like a modest girl!"

 _Oh, God._ Brad thought. _Oh, no. Oh, God, no._ There had to be a way to get the topic changed from what people thought he might be looking at in changing rooms, he thought, feeling faint. He tried to force a smile onto his face.

"Well, who can blame a guy for feeling inadequate when there are muscle-bound creatures like Hendrickson and his cousin ready to leap into the pool?"

Frank laughed. "Compared to them we're all just babes and striplings – Richard's right, you need to get over your shyness. Sign him up!"

Richard went up the steps, ignoring Brad's protests, and they saw him talking to a man in the foyer. He had to repeat himself more than once, and Brad had a moment's hope that the beer and lack of practice in speaking the language might make the whole thing fall through. Then Richard waved them up and led them down a corridor, where he shoved through a large door. He was almost immediately expelled, to Brad's relief, followed by an annoyed-looking man of middle years. Richard seemed not to cope with the flurry of German that came at him, then he rallied and managed to respond. The man looked at him in obvious scorn, though his tone was far less annoyed, and Richard smiled winningly and pulled Brad forward.

"Tell him you volunteer," he said.

"I want to, that is, sir, I'd like to –" Brad said in halting German, hoping to prove himself a good sport and perhaps make his friends laugh at him only for provincial gaucheness once more.

The man nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes," he said in English. "We need another model. You will change in there, quickly, please." He pointed to the door across the corridor.

Frank dragged Brad into the room and he and Richard made it hard to do anything as they insisted on helping him disrobe.

"Maybe we should just go," Brad pleaded as Richard flung his shirt onto a shelf.

"Absolutely not, this is hilarious!"

The man came back and flung a robe around him, pulling him back across the corridor. "Quickly! The class must begin!" He held up a hand as Frank and Richard attempted to follow them into the classroom. "No. Visitors are not permitted."

"We'll wait for you!" Frank called, as the doors swung shut.

Brad quailed as he looked at the easels set up and the students waiting. There were even a few women among them, he saw, wanting to die. He was led over to a raised platform at the front of the room, where a woman wearing a similar robe was already sitting in the only chair. She nodded politely, but made no other acknowledgement.

"Your robe, please. Sit here, please, look this way," the man said, pointing to the steps of the platform. He regarded Brad's position critically. "You will excuse me," he said, and moved Brad's head to the position he wanted, doing the same then with one leg and an arm. He went to speak to the seated woman, then called out to the class, who started working.

After the first minutes, when the blush the covered him from feet to forehead had subsided, Brad became at first curious about the students, and wished he could look around, then conscious of an itch on his ankle that he wished he could scratch, then uncomfortable from sitting in one position for so long and finally tried to give up thinking at all, for all that circled in his mind was the mockery of his friends. He was surprised when the students puts down their charcoal sticks and began chatting and lighting cigarettes. He looked round and found the woman on the chair had already pulled on her robe and was stretching unselfconsciously. He turned quickly as a booted foot nudged his, and found a young man grinning at him.

"I'm sorry, could you speak a little slower?" he said, not catching a word. "My German is not very good."

"We're finished," the young man said, running a black-smudged hand through his red hair. "Where are you from? Have you ever done this before? You did well for a –"

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" Brad said helplessly.

"You did well, for one whose first time this was," the young man said in English.

"Ah, for a first-timer," Brad said, awkwardly pulling on his robe. "Thanks. This is definitely a day of firsts." He was surprised to be followed across the corridor to the other room.

"American? Why are you in Berlin? You are here to work, perhaps?"

"Yes, I'm American," Brad said. "I'm here with friends – we've just finished college. We wanted to celebrate by travelling. I don't suppose you might know where they would wait around here?"

His new acquaintance shrugged. "I will ask, when you are ready. What part of America? New York?"

Brad laughed. "Sadly, no. I'm a hick, just ask my friends."

"I do not understand the joke," the young man said cheerfully.

"To be honest, neither do I most days," Brad said.

"Let us find your friends."

They went out to the foyer the young man accosted a man in a side room, indicating Brad and asking him rapid-fire questions. He seemed amused by the answer he received and came back, laughing a little.

"They have abandoned you. They say they will meet you at your hotel this evening, and you must no longer be so shy. Is that what it means to be a 'hick' - your pardon, what _is_ your name?"

"Crawford," Brad said, mentally cursing Frank and Richard to perdition and the worst of hangovers. "Brad Crawford. I have _no_ idea where my hotel is, _none_." He looked at the by now openly laughing young man and felt a smile begin to tug at his lips, as if against his will. "And your name, my dear sir?"

"Oh, good God. No one speaks like that any longer, perhaps we should speak only in English. You may call me 'Schuldig', a name that expresses the nature of the age." Before Brad could ask for clarification, he went on, "And now you will join me for coffee, and you will tell me why you modeled for us, come, come!"

Soon they were sitting in a small café, drinking their coffees, and Brad found himself answering questions about himself, his life in America and how he had become the class's life model.

"So you wanted an adventure when you came to Berlin; you will have one with me. Already you are telling your life story to a handsome stranger!" Schuldig laughed.

Brad smiled. He _was_ handsome, slender, a few years younger than Brad himself, with narrow, perpetually amused blue eyes, and bright red hair that was now neatly brushed; he didn't seem to mind being looked at, either. Still, better safe than sorry, he thought, and busied himself with his coffee cup again. When he looked up, Schuldig was sorrowfully peering into his cigarette case.

"Ah, I thought I had filled it this morning; I must buy some more, let me call the waiter –"

"Have one of mine," Brad said, pulling his case from his pocket. Schuldig took one and looked at him, consideringly.

"Do you have matches?"

It was an odd question, given that there were matches on the table. Brad picked them up, a little bewildered, and Schuldig leant forwards.

"Light it for me?"

He steadied Brad's hand with his own as he touched the cigarette to the flame, keeping his hand cupped round Brad's for a few moments afterwards, before sitting back and continuing the conversation as if nothing untoward had happened.

Maybe nothing had, Brad thought, still feeling the warmth of his fingers. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch what you said?"

Schuldig smiled at him in a way that made him wonder again what had just happened. "I said it is still too early for dinner, we should do something until then. I do not usually draw in the style demanded by that class – would you care to see one of my works? Most of the students' canvasses are stored in the school's studios, but I have been working on one in my rooms. You will come to see it with me?"

"I couldn't possibly impose on your time more than I already –"

"Pah, you are here for adventure, do you not need a guide who knows the area? Come to my rooms, we will have something to drink, later we will go to dinner –"

"My friends will wonder where I am; I really should go back to the hotel to meet them," Brad said, wishing it were otherwise.

"Your friends mock you and your upbringing, and abandoned you in a city where you can barely say more than _Good day_. I am glad I have no such friends," Schuldig said crisply.

Brad stared at him, open-mouthed. "That was . . . extremely outspoken," he managed at last.

"And something of what is truly in your mind, I think." Schuldig melted again into charm, adding, "Come with me, do you not want to?"

"I – yes, all right," Brad said, thinking it would do no harm to have something to tell the others about his day.

They finished their cigarettes and coffees and set off, walking smartly along with Schuldig pointing out sights of local interest that Brad looked at in appreciation, even when they were just shops and bars such as might be found in any city.

"Why is that one important?" he asked, missing the important detail in a story.

"The murder! You find murder unimportant? You are very – hmm. Ah, cynical, perhaps?"

"I just got confused what with all the murders and love affairs gone wrong that seem to happen round here," Brad said, feeling he was being laughed at yet again.

"It is a very artistic area," Schuldig said gravely, and Brad thought that maybe he was laughing at himself, which was a much better feeling. "This building, this one is even more important." He flashed a bright grin. "I live here." He led the way up the stairs and unlocked a door on the first landing. "Welcome."

Brad looked around the large room appreciatively, taking in the high windows and the table beneath them stacked with books. An easel was set up in the corner, draped with a cloth and Schuldig indicated it before going to pour brandy into two plain water tumblers. Brad took down the cloth and examined the half-finished sepia and grey image revealed beneath, cocking his head to look at it sideways, in case the jagged lines and fractured figures made more sense to him that way.

"It's not like what I could see people were drawing in the class," he said.

"They insist we must be able to depict the human form accurately," Schuldig said, handing him a glass with a half-smile. "It is not a skill I have much use for otherwise. Our modern world, you see?" he said, indicating the painting. "Mechanistic, repetitive, devouring the human spirit." He saluted Brad with the glass and threw back his brandy.

"Not very cheerful," Brad said, sipping his drink and bending near the painting, looking closer to be polite. It had no charm, but he couldn't deny it had a certain bleak power. He wondered where on earth artists got their ideas from, and was glad he had a job lined up at home in his father's company. He vaguely heard the click of glass on wood as Schuldig put down his tumbler, then had the merest presentiment of – something – before Schuldig ran a hand up his back and kissed the side of his neck. Brad froze in terror, wondering how he could have been so obvious, before he saw that Schuldig was still smiling, though his expression was now tinged with wariness.

 _He has as much to lose as I_ , Brad thought, and let go the breath he'd been holding. Schuldig's face lost most of the wariness and he pulled him close and kissed him; Brad closed his eyes and kissed back, feeling Schuldig's arms go about him.

"So, I am glad I am not wrong," Schuldig said when they broke the kiss. "I hope this is not for you also a first?"

"I'm afraid it is," Brad said, still amazed at the fact that he had kissed or been kissed by anyone.

"Let us remedy this," Schuldig said, cheerfully, and then, looking down in some surprise, "you dropped your glass."

"I'm sorry! I –"

"It is only a glass. I have others. Come here, come here."

He pulled Brad over to the bed and down onto it; he was much better at helping get clothes off than Frank or Richard had been, Brad thought, then he gave himself over to better thoughts, like how easy it was to get used to kissing someone who wanted to kiss you back. He gasped against Schuldig's skin in pleased shock at how it felt when Schuldig put a hand between his legs to stroke him.

"It is only the beginning, I promise you," Schuldig said between kisses.

Brad clung on, wondering if he could really do this, then suddenly laughed, making Schuldig look at him in surprise. He had wanted adventure, a vacation to remember; here it was, his own private adventure before he had to go back and be sensible and hard-working, something just for him.

"I'll do anything - _everything_ ," he said. "I want to."

"Everything," Schuldig said, happily. "Yes."

 

* * *

 

That evening, Brad opened his eyes after his second short nap to find Schuldig standing over him with a plate of sliced meat and bread rolls.

"You did not look as if you were going to get up so that we might go out to eat," he said, amused. "Maybe later?"

"Later," Brad agreed, making himself a sandwich. "After you've had a chance to rest too – do you think you might need to go back to bed? You haven't got dressed . . ."

"No," Schuldig said. "I haven't." He reached out and grabbed a large book, dropping it on the covers. "Here, look – you, asleep."

Brad thumbed through the sketches, blushing. "Oh. I hope this isn't your schoolbook. You can't really show these in your class."

"Why not? They are a little more direct than the life drawing classes, but –"

Brad held the book open at one page. "This one has both of us in it. I think I'd remember you drawing it at the time. And the English word you want isn't _direct_ , it's _obscene_."

Schuldig's grin was obscene in and of itself, he thought, wanting to smile helplessly.

"You like it, I think."

"It's very – direct."

Schuldig laughed and took the sketchbook away, putting it and the plate on the table. "Also, for the moment is it enough. Let us continue our previous class."

"Oh, yes," Brad said, refusing to look over at the clock. "Please."

Hours later, Schuldig kissed his forehead, murmuring, "Are you staying until the morning? I would be glad of it."

"I wish I could," Brad said. For an instant he thought he'd agree, then he quailed at the questions he knew he'd receive from his friends, and was forced to admit to himself that he could never sustain a convincing lie in the face of their curiosity. A day in the company of a foreign student who had shown him around the vicinity of the art college had enough truth in it to be both believable and uninteresting enough for them to dig further.

"You need to rejoin your unpleasant friends," Schuldig said. "No, it is all right – you are far from home and you know them. You think I should not have been rude."

"You're quite right about them," Brad said, surprising himself. "Thank God we've finished college – I never have to see them again after this if I don't want to."

He washed himself at the sink and dressed, finding Schuldig dressed more quickly.

"Perhaps you will come to see me again before you go," he said, writing on a piece of paper. "Perhaps you will write to me – or come back next year. You will need my address - I intend to keep this room throughout my studies, you will find me here, or at the college. I have written both for you." He folded the paper and handed it over. "Now, let me make sure you are delivered safely back in time to appear as if you want to go to bed early." He winked. "As I know you do."

They went downstairs and out to the main street, where Schuldig imperiously summoned a taxi. He gave instructions to the driver, then opened the door for Brad.

"I have told him your hotel, and paid him the fare," he said. "No, do not argue, he might have tried to cheat such an obvious visitor to the city. Goodbye, Brad, I cannot say it as I want, here in the street. Come to see me, or write to me!"

"Yes," Brad said, getting in and closing the door. He rolled down the window. "And I'll buy all your paintings."

"Good! You must!" Schuldig called out as the car started off.

Brad sat back, feeling both elated and bereft. He took the paper from his pocket, puzzling over the carefully written German letters of the addresses until he was sure he understood them, only then thinking to turn the paper over. He felt himself flush with both embarrassment and remembered desire at the sight of the sketch of himself and Schuldig entwined. _My own private adventure_ , he thought with pleasure, tucking the paper away very carefully. He didn't know the German for _Remember me_ , but it was clearly delineated on the page for him to see and marvel at, as if he could ever have forgotten.

Smiling out at the dark, Brad crossed the enthralling city.


End file.
